


Murphy's Law of Cohabitation

by zipegs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Emotional Constipation, Crack Treated Seriously, DeanCas FlipFest, DeanCas FlipFest 2019, Fluff and Humor, Frottage, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Humor, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Trope Inversion, canon divergent post-s8, dean makes everything more complicated than it has to be, this is campy as shit and i'm not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 09:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/pseuds/zipegs
Summary: He’s always thought Cas returned his interest, at least on a fundamental level, but figured if the guy wanted to make a move, he’d make a move. Maybe it’s time to get a little more… proactive.In which Dean tries (and fails) to take matters into his own hands.





	Murphy's Law of Cohabitation

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is! As a huge proponent of any and all bed-sharing tropes, this was incredibly fun to write. Thanks so much to the FlipFest mods for running this challenge and giving me the opportunity to indulge my sillier side! I had the privilege of working with [mere-mortifer](https://mere-mortifer.tumblr.com), who has created some really wonderful art for this piece! Please make sure to [check it out on tumblr](https://mere-mortifer.tumblr.com/post/187836304556/im-excited-to-post-the-drawing-i-did-for-the) and show them some love!
> 
> Thank you also to my betas for this piece: [evolving_diamond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evolving_diamond), [Izchicuautli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izchicuautli), [onlylove13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlylove13), and [Pen_and_Paper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pen_and_Paper). I so appreciate your help and insight!

Dean wakes up to hot breath on his neck and an erection pressed up against his ass.

It takes him a moment to shake off the fog of sleep—he’d been in the middle of an _awesome_ dream featuring Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, and a whole lotta skin—and take stock of his current situation, which comes back to him in bits and pieces.

It’s late—the motel room is dark, save shafts of moonlight that curl around the heavy window drapes and spill out onto the floor. Dean can make out a vaguely Sam-like shape on the bed across from him, back turned to the center of the room. The only sounds are deep breathing and the occasional shush and rumble of a car passing over the cracked asphalt outside.

The person behind him—Castiel, Dean remembers with a twinge of heat and anxiety in his gut—sucks in a long breath. He feels Cas’s chest expand against his back, and then a soft stream of air blows warm and damp just under his ear. Goosebumps rise on the skin it touches; he shivers. Cas has an arm slung around Dean’s chest, and it tightens, drawing him nearer. His erection pokes insistently at the small of Dean’s back, a hot brand that makes his teeth clench and an answering heat stir between his legs.

There are a million reasons why Dean should scoot over and go the fuck back to sleep. _It’s just morning wood,_ he tries to tell himself, _or, heh, midnight wood._ _Doesn’t mean jack shit._ But each shift of his body, each drag of Cas’s cock against the worn fabric of his shirt has arousal coiling tighter and tighter in the pit of his stomach. Because this? This is Cas wanting him.

His heart kicks up a punishing rhythm in his chest, and a gentle flush spreads through his body. _Don’t do it,_ he begs himself, even as he shimmies backward. Cas makes a small noise behind him in response, and his hips roll forward, cock grinding hard against Dean’s back as his hand slides down to grab at Dean’s hip.

_Holy shit,_ he thinks, hands desperately clutching at the comforter, _Oh my god, he’s awake_. But there isn’t time to linger on the thought, because Cas is tonguing at the back of his neck, peppering open-mouthed kisses on the flushed skin he finds there. Each time he moves his mouth, cold air rushes in to fill the space he has left, raising goosebumps all over Dean’s body. Dean arches his back, and the hand on his chest splays flat over his belly, dragging down to palm at his cock through his boxers.

“Cas,” Dean moans, cock twitching. In response, Cas squeezes gently, then brings his hand under the waistband of Dean’s boxers.

He sucks in a sharp breath, hips bucking hard into Cas’s fist as pleasure spikes in his belly. “Jesus Christ,” he gasps, as Cas pulls and twists. They’ve barely even started and already Dean’s blood is boiling. He’s heady with it, thighs trembling with the knowledge that this is _Cas_ bringing him off. This is Cas jerking him rough and practiced, panting against Dean’s neck. It’s everything he’d imagined, every wet dream he’s ever had and more. Cas thrusts against him insistently now, and Dean feels a growing wet patch against the exposed skin of his back. _Fuck. _

“Dean,” Castiel grunts, his hips working up a steady rhythm. His breathing quickens, interspersed with little puffs of breath that have Dean’s arousal spiraling higher and higher. He loses track of himself, time and reality spiraling out of his grasp as pleasure commands his full attention, and so when he looks down and sees Cas splayed out flushed and breathless and absolutely _sinful _beneath him, he accepts it unquestioningly. Cas’s eyes are wide, hair absolutely wrecked, and Dean can’t keep himself from capturing his lips in a bruising kiss. 

Cas whimpers, actually honest-to-God whimpers into his mouth, one hand flying up to clutch at Dean’s hair. His breath catches in his throat, heat throbbing through him. He has come untethered, a buoy which has slipped its moorings, and knows only the waves of pleasure which rock him further and further out to sea. He deepens the kiss, tongue sliding against Cas’s; the sounds they make are slick and wet and obscenely loud in the room’s thick silence.

Dean spares a moment to thank God for small mercies, namely that Sam had the forethought to book them two rooms, and then Cas’s hand tightens in his hair to the point of painful. He yanks Dean’s head back, their mouths separating with a wet smack, and pulls until there are a few inches separating their kiss-swollen lips. The sharp pain goes right to his cock, and he can’t help the small noise that hitches in the back of his throat.

Cas looks up at Dean from between his legs, hunched low over his naked stomach and thighs. His eyes are hooded, his gaze intense, as he slowly lowers himself to nuzzle against the ‘V’ of Dean’s hips. His cock twitches at the proximity of those full, chapped lips.

“Fuck, oh my god, Cas, are you—“ he breaks off into a whine as Cas’s mouth closes around the head of his cock, his hips jerking up desperately into the tight heat. “Yeah, just— just like that; you feel so good—_shit.” _Cas sucks hard, hand wrapping tight around the base of his cock and jerking it in time with the bob of his head, and _oh,_ he’s so close—

“I’m gonna—” he warns, the muscles in his thighs trembling as he fights for composure. Cas moans something around him, a word that sounds suspiciously like his name. _Dean._ “I’m gonna come, I’m— _Cas_—”

Cas takes him in deep and sucks hard, his fingers moving back to press just behind Dean’s balls, and he loses it, stomach jumping as he thrusts up, unable to control himself, and comes hard down Castiel’s throat.

“_Dean_.”

He groans, pressing his face into the pillow as aftershocks of pleasure zing through his body.

Wait—

Dean shoves himself sloppily up on his forearms and opens his eyes to squint up at Sam, who’s smirking at him from across the room. Sunlight slices through the slatted blinds to paint stripes of yellow over the table at which he sits—it’s bright enough that looking at it drives spikes of pain just behind his eyes, so Dean drops his gaze to the plastic clock on the side table instead, which reads 8:27 in blocky red numbers.

“Good dream?” 

Dean’s still trying to extricate himself from some _Inception-_level bullshit, half expecting to find Castiel curled up behind him, loose and sated, so he grunts and throws up a middle finger in place of a response. As the vestiges of sleep are ground down by wakefulness, Dean pushes his face back against the pillow and suppresses a groan. There’s a sticky wetness inside his boxers—fucking awesome. What is he, sixteen?

It’d be a lie to say he’s surprised, though, because his attraction to Castiel has always had a way of surpassing any and all obstacles thrown at it, age included. He’s been half in love with the guy since the moment he dragged him out of Hell—and, okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but the fact remains that Dean’s been pining over 1,047 feet of angel stuffed into five feet and 11 inches of tax accountant for close to five fucking years now.

It’s becoming a problem.

At first, Dean thought it would go away. So the guy got him hot and bothered, big deal—he couldn’t help that Cas had chosen a real looker for his vessel, had a voice like he’d been chewing on gravel and a stare that went straight to Dean’s groin. He’d figured he’d pick up a few chicks (or dudes—who was he to discriminate?) with dark hair and icy blue eyes, fuck it out of his system, and Bob’s your uncle.

But then Castiel had turned out to be strong, and badass, and caring. He’d chiseled down the walls around Dean’s heart bit by bit and carved himself a home. Dean still noticed the arch of his brow and the curve of his lips, but he started to notice other things, too: the way his head tilts when he’s confused, the way he speaks to cats and birds and fish like they’re human, his complete and utter lack of knowledge about any form of pop culture.

After Cassie and Lisa, Dean had sworn off any thought of love or family; he’d come to terms with the fact that he’d never find happiness like Dad did, that he’d never get the chance to have and to (hopefully) hold.

But recently, he’s been starting to reconsider.

Not that he’s had the courage to say anything to Cas or do anything to that end; the thought alone is scary enough, and anyway, there’s never been a time. Probably never will be—when you’re constantly stuck between ending and saving the world, there’s not a lot of space left over for romance. Besides, he’s never been particularly good at words and wooing and all that sentimental bullshit; most of his relationships, even back in his high school days, had blossomed out of really friggin’ good sex.

Huh. Well, that’s an idea.

He’d need a way to get Cas to sleep with him, of course, but Dean’s seen the looks he gets when Cas thinks he isn’t watching. He’s always thought Cas returned his interest, at least on a fundamental level, but figured if the guy wanted to make a move, he’d make a move. Maybe it’s time to get a little more… proactive.

An idea is forming in the back of his mind. And with his most recent… uh, _dream…_ still fresh in his memory (and in his boxers), Dean thinks he knows just how to do it. It’ll happen naturally—if all goes well, he won’t even have to say a word. Man vs. nature, and all that.

Now, he’s just gotta find a time and a place to make it happen.

\---

Opportunity takes a while to rear its head—they’ve been taking things slow, with Cas newly human and Sam rebuilding his strength. It’s been difficult for all of them. They’re used to pushing until they break; taking it easy is a foreign (and kinda unwelcome) concept. It means having time to sleep and read and dwell on deeper stuff like life and love and happiness—concepts that have never fit any of them particularly comfortably. But as anxious as he is to undergo _Act I, Scene I_ of his new masterpiece, Dean has been adamant about taking the time to heal. He doesn’t want to see the life leach out of Sam’s eyes again, doesn’t want to find Cas bruised and bloody because he’s once more overestimated his vessel’s—his _body’s_—resiliency.

Still, it’s been about a month since their last hunt, and restlessness is a rash on Dean’s skin.

Two days ago, he’d finally found something interesting enough to warrant investigating and small enough to promise easy cleanup, and everyone in the bunker has been all but salivating over the opportunity. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been so excited to get back in the field, so to speak—and that’s saying something. Sam and Cas were packed and ready to go in record time, although Dean had insisted they slow down and take a full day to prepare, just to be sure.

And that brings them here: to Winston, Colorado, parked outside a motel that rivals the Bates for its appeal. It’s raining, too—a steady sheet of water that lowers visibility to something laughable. Through the haze of grey, Dean can barely make out the diffused glow of a neon sign: “Evergreen Motel,” and just underneath: “VACANCY.” He twists his key in the ignition, killing the engine, and glances over at Sam, who’s seated beside him in the passenger seat.

“M’gonna go see if they got any rooms available,” he says with as much nonchalance he can muster. “No sense in all of us gettin’ drenched if we don’t have to. Besides,”—he raises an eyebrow and gestures accusingly at Sam with the key—“_you_ are still recovering.”

Sam rolls his eyes at that, but Dean doesn’t give him time to argue. He takes a moment to steel his resolve—because, shit, it really is coming down out there—and then shoves open the car door, hurrying out into the rain. He can hear Sam starting to speak.

“Dude, the vacancy sign is right there—”

Dean feigns obliviousness, cutting off the end of his brother’s sentence with the slam of the door. He turns up his collar against the rain, not that it helps, and shoves his hands in his pockets, already preening at his ingenuity. There’s a spring in his step as he yanks open the office door, despite the thorough soaking he’s gotten during the short walk. Well, he’ll just have to slip into something a little more_ comfortable_ once they get to the room.

He flashes the attendant a winning grin and comes to lean on the counter, rapping his fingers twice against the smooth wood. “Heya, buddy.”

The kid looks less than amused. He sets down the book he’d been reading with a sigh and glances up at Dean. “Need a room?”

“Got it in one.” That provokes no response, but Dean is so close to seducing Cas he can taste it. Nothing is gonna kill _this _mood. “You got a room with two queens?”

And, of course, like the overgrown, mood-killing, cockblocking monster he is, Sam chooses that moment to walk in. He graces Dean with his classic bitch face, version: confused, and comes to stand beside him at the counter, bag slung over his shoulder. Cas enters behind and lingers in the doorway.

“Uh, actually, if you’ve got anything with a pullout, that’d be great.”

Dean’s smile freezes on his face. Irritation stabs at his temple. He forces a laugh, but it’s too big in this small space and comes out sounding raucously artificial. “Damn, right. Force of habit.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. Annoyance bubbles in Dean’s stomach, but it melts into concern as he slides his gaze over to Cas. The guy’s doing a great impression of a drowned cat—his hair is plastered to his skull, water gathering into fat droplets at the tips and running down his cheeks, his nose.

Dean’s mesmerized. He’s also worried. Cas is shivering, his hoodie—now drenched—an insufficient barrier against the cold. He’s not used small inconveniences like a late-autumn chill, the stab of heavy rain, the way wet cotton plasters itself to skin. It’s odd to see him like this, rumpled and vulnerable, and Dean wonders whether he might catch a cold. Immediately, he feels like an idiot—although he might be newly human, Castiel has been alive in _some_ capacity for billions of years. A case of the sniffles isn’t going to lay him out.

Right?

“Dean.” It takes effort to wrench his gaze away and look back to Sam. His eyes want to linger on Cas, to drink in the way his t-shirt clings to his chest and the wet, exposed line of his throat. In his moment of hesitation, Dean realizes that Cas is watching him too, eyes narrowed slightly with what he imagines is either confusion or discomfort. When he does manage to look away, Sam is studying him with his brows raised, impatience settled into the lines of his face. “Dude. The card?”

Heat blossoms in his cheeks. Embarrassed, he fishes one of their credit cards out of his wallet and passes it over to the attendant, who looks like he’d rather be literally _anywhere_ but here. Not that Dean can blame him.

A moment later, he passes it back. “You’re all set,” he says, handing them a set of keys. “Room 14. Two fulls and a pullout. Checkout’s at 11. If you have any problems with the WiFi, call down here to the front desk. Signal can get a little spotty sometimes.”

Sam takes the keys and gives the kid a small, apologetic smile. Dean stuffs his wallet back in his pants and tries to tamp down the disappointment that’s solidifying on his shoulders. He gestures to Cas in exaggerated chivalry.

“After you.”

\---

As it turns out, Cas does catch a cold, and Dean was right to worry. He’s a miserable patient, even if he doesn’t outright complain. _I’ve decimated legions of demons, Dean; I can handle a common cold_, he’d said, although the effect had been lessened somewhat by the angry red nose and watering eyes.

They discover that he’s the grumpy kind of sick, equal parts pathetic and pissed off. Even wrapped up in his comforter and painfully human, the sheer power of his glare is enough to drive the Winchesters to submission.

Sam seems to be somewhat relieved that Cas is feeling under the weather. Which is terrible, even though Dean’s pretty sure it’s got something to do with the focus shifting off him and onto the ex-angel. And okay, maybe he’s been hovering a little too much, but give him a break. It’s the guy’s first cold, and Dean wants to make it as painless as possible.

He cooks up grilled cheese and tomato rice soup, and though he doesn’t remember Mary’s recipe anymore (it’s a hazy memory, yellow around the corners and fuzzy with age), it tastes damn good. Cas seems to appreciate it, at least—the groan he makes when he tries a spoonful goes straight to Dean’s crotch, and he graces him with a warm smile that Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

One week and a little (okay, a lot of) fussing later, they’re back on the road—this time in Illinois.

Dean likes to think he’s learned his lesson since the last fiasco, so he sends Sam and Cas to the library under the guise of getting a head start on research and goes to check into the motel himself. _Murphy’s Law, _he thinks smugly, _can go screw itself._

The Impala’s tires crunch as they drag over the gravel parking lot; Dean slows to a stop and shoves the gear stick up into park. Unlike last time he pulled into an unfamiliar motel, the sun is out and shining, not a cloud in sight. He’s not one to put any stock in divine providence, but damn if that doesn’t look like a sign. He’s out of the car and across the parking lot in record time, spinning his keys around his index finger as he pulls open the door to the office.

This time around, the transaction goes a lot smoother. Ten minutes and one forged signature later, he’s got the keys for Room 7—two queens, a mini-fridge, and on-demand TV. Dean can picture it now: a couple of beers and some shitty movie to loosen them all up, Cas smiling and soft, haloed by the television’s blue-white glow. When they decide to turn in, he wonders how difficult it’ll be to actually fall asleep. He can’t imagine it’ll be easy, knowing that Cas is sprawled out a foot away from him, feeling the heat radiating off his body, hearing the gentle rhythm of his breath. Dean has a hard enough time ignoring the guy’s presence as it is, and that’s when they’re just standing or sitting beside each other. 

Not that he would mind, he thinks as he slides back behind the wheel and pulls out of the parking lot. As much as he wants this to happen organically (i.e., with as little instigation on his end as possible), he’d like to catalog every moment of sleeping beside Cas, to file each breath, each movement, away in a dark, private corner of his mind. Not that he’d ever admit it—he’s got a reputation to uphold, after all.

Dean turns the music up a little louder, letting Metallica drown out any thought of sleep-rumpled hair and bleary blue eyes.

He picks up a couple six-packs, a bag of m&m’s, and those little strawberry candies that Cas likes at the local gas station and then swings by Biggerson’s to grab some takeout.

By the time he makes it back to the library, the sun is just beginning to sink below the horizon, bathing the world in the purple-gold hues which herald dusk. Sam and Cas are waiting outside for him when he finally arrives, loitering on the sidewalk several paces away. He pulls up to the curb, and they slide in—Sam in front and Cas in the back, as always. Dean glances at Cas in the rearview mirror and mentally rehearses the lines he’s been going over since he left the motel. _Bad news—got the last room in the place, and it’s only got two beds. Fucking Illinois._ He’s almost vibrating with anticipation. He opens his mouth.

“So obviously we won’t know anything until we start interviewing the families,” Sam says, heedless of the words forming on Dean’s tongue, “but Cas thinks he’s got a lead on the link between the vics.”

Dean swallows down his announcement, and it lodges deep in his throat. He glances at Cas in the mirror again, smiling around the lump. “Yeah?”

Castiel squints back at him, lost in thought. “The victims belonged to a support group,” he says, and turns his attention to the window. “They meet on Wednesday nights at the local Presbyterian church.”

Dean makes a noise of acknowledgment. “Good a start as any. Hey, by the way—”

“And”—Sam talks over Dean, once again cutting him off remorselessly—“the group is relatively new. Just formed a month ago. Which is—”

“When the attacks started happening,” Dean interrupts. “Great.” He can’t help the undercurrent of irritation in his voice, because _seriously? _Not that Sam has ever, _ever_ had good timing, but come on. Give a guy a break.

Sam either doesn't notice or doesn't care that Dean is nearly vibrating with the need to speak—he prattles on and on about the case until Dean fears his brain might melt out of his ears. Cas interjects occasionally, but he’s partaking in his own favorite Impala-riding activity, which is staring out at the scenery as it rushes past and mostly keeping his mouth shut.

By the time they arrive at the motel, Dean is ready to bash his head in. Thankfully, pulling into the parking lot does wonders for his mood—hello, two beds? He’s up and out of the car in record time, slinging his duffel over his shoulder and gathering up the grocery bags with both hands. He leads the way, turning his head slightly to speak over his shoulder.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he starts, which is, of course, a blatant fucking lie. “Place only had one room left. Three guesses how many beds?” He slides his key into the lock and twists, turning the knob and shouldering the door open. “So looks like you two princesses are gonna have to fight for one of ‘em, ‘cause I sure as hell am…”

He trails off.

Crap. 

_Double _crap.

Sitting there, right in front of the fucking stone-age television, is a couch. It’s a butt-ugly excuse for one—yellow and brown plaid, with some questionable stains—but it’s a couch. Panic seizes in his stomach, and he stiffens for a moment, just past the threshold. Sam squeezes past and sets his duffel down on one of the beds.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he says. “I’m taking a bed. You and Cas can fight over the other one.”

Okay. He can work with this. 

Once he finishes buffering (he’s never been quick on his feet at anything other than hunting, sue him), he sets the plastic bags down on a little round table in the corner of the room.

Cas is hovering somewhere between the couch and the beds, his bag hanging awkwardly off one shoulder. Dean raises his eyebrows at him. “That couch is like… ten minutes and two hundred pounds away from disintegrating.”

Castiel’s gaze flickers to Sam for a moment, then back to Dean. He tightens his grip on his bag. “I don’t mind,” he says, misunderstanding completely_._ He’s walking over to the couch, and Dean feels his face twitching.

“Aw, come on! You seriously think you can sleep on that thing?”

Sam shoots him a look from where he’s bent over his bed, digging around in the belly of his duffel bag. “If you’re so worried about it, Dean, why don’t _you _take the couch?”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. He shifts his weight. “...Because…”

It’s all he can come up with.

“I’ll be fine,” Cas insists, and he drops his bag next to the piss-yellow monstrosity. Dean can feel his plans for the night receding, a tide drawing back to reveal miles and miles of bone-dry sand. “You’ve been very kind this past week, but I can handle several broken springs.”

Dean clings desperately to the fast-unraveling threads of his expertly-woven plan. “We could, uh, share,” he says awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. Which, okay, is maybe a little out of character, but he doesn’t think it deserves the response he gets. Sam is staring at him—he can feel his disbelief like a laser boring into the side of his head. Castiel is looking back at him quizzically, head tilted to the side as though attempting to decode a particularly complicated cipher.

_Fuck._

Dean puts on a smile that hurts his cheeks and channels his best _got ya_ expression. “Ha! Just kidding. I’m gonna—” He cuts himself off, turning his back to the room and busying himself with unpacking the goods. He balls the plastic bags up in his fist and tosses them on the floor. _Damn it. _How fucking hard is it to find a motel room with two goddamn beds? 

He huffs out a breath through his nose and pulls a beer out of one of the cardboard carriers, trying to suppress the frustration needling at his skin. _Get it together, Winchester._

Someone has come up behind him. Dean twists, catching Cas’s eye over his shoulder. His expression is gentle; Dean wonders whether he can feel his irritation, if it’s polluting the air like exhaust_. Well, the guy _was_ an angel, _he figures. _Maybe he’s still got some of his Spidey sense. _He snags another beer out of the carrier and passes it over. Castiel takes it, his gaze locked on Dean’s. Their fingers brush, and Dean feels heat spike within him at the contact. He clears his throat and turns back to the table, swiping a couple of burgers.

“Here.” He drops one into Castiel’s hand and starts over to the couch. “Burgers for you’n me, and a garden salad for Thumper over there.” Dean shoots Sam a good-natured glare and sits down. His ass immediately sinks deep into the couch. _Several broken springs _his ass. “I, uh, also got some of those douchey grandma candies.” He drops the burger into his lap and twists the cap off his beer, needing something to occupy his hands. There’s the rustling of paper and plastic, and then Castiel comes to sit beside him. Sam has gone over to the table and is rooting around inside the bag.

Cas tears open the package and plucks a candy out, unwrapping it carefully and popping it into his mouth. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, with a gravity that makes Dean flush.

“Dude, it’s just candy. It was like, two dollars _max._”

But it doesn’t seem to matter. Castiel is smiling at him, close-lipped and soft. The scent of strawberries lingers in the air, artificial and sweet, and Dean thinks that maybe tonight isn’t a bust after all.

\--

Life begins to settle into a familiar rhythm. It isn’t easy, exactly, but it hasn’t been for a while. Yeah, Sam still gets winded a little easier, tired a little faster, and yes, some nights Dean finds Castiel sitting outside alone and looking up at the stars. But urgency is starting to wear away, revealing something a little softer just beneath.

It’s corroded and fragile, but it isn’t all sharp edges anymore, and Dean will take what he can get.

He rolls his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness out of his limbs. As much as he hates to admit it, he isn’t as young as he used to be, and cross-country drives are becoming a little more difficult. Not that he’s ready to start slowing down or breaking the trips up into several days—he’s not _that _old, not yet at least. But he’s on the tail end of a 12-hour drive, and his ass is sore, and his back’s starting to ache.

Sam is giving him one of his _looks _from over in the passenger seat. _Should’ve let me drive_, it’s saying, so Dean sucks up his pain and pastes a smile on his face. He’s not getting an _I told you so_—not if he can help it. The only thing more insufferable than Sammy after a long drive is Sammy after a long drive when he’s gloating, and Dean is _so _not in the mood.

At this point, he’s just ready to knock out and catch his hopefully-four-plus hours of sleep. There’s a breakfast special waiting for him on the other side—he can almost taste it. 

He ducks out of the car and trudges around the back to grab his duffel. Unfortunately, he’s pretty much given up on his prospects for _Mission: Seduction _tonight; Sam had actually pointed this motel out because of its vacancy sign, so no way Dean’s gonna pull a fast one and run into the office alone under the pretense of scoping the place out. And it’s not like there’s anything to do in the fucking asscrack of night; Dean can’t exactly send Sam and Cas off for research at four in the goddamn morning.

So, like he said—he’s just looking forward to a couple hours of uninterrupted shut-eye, and then some greasy meat to bring him out of his coma tomorrow morning. 

Once Sam and Cas have snagged their bags, Dean slams the trunk and locks her up. He follows them across the parking lot and into the office, a small building squatting off to the side of the strip of rooms, and finds that Sam is already standing at the counter. He’s talking with a kinda harried-looking middle-aged woman, and neither of them seems to be overly happy. 

“Oh, uh, that’s okay,” Sam is saying. He shoots a look back at Dean as he enters before turning his attention back to the counter. “Do you have a rollaway we can take in or something?”

“I’m so sorry, but we’ve only got one, and it’s being used by room ten right now.”

“No, no, it’s fine, uh…” He shakes his hair back (and alright, the luscious locks have actually grown on Dean a little in the past couple years, but does Sam have to constantly pull this Fabio bullcrap?) and gives the woman a strained smile. “How about anything with a couch?”

“Our only rooms available have two queens,” she says, and something sparks in Dean’s mind. “They come with a table and two chairs, but no couches, unfortunately. Sorry.”

The rest of their conversation fizzles into static on the heels of this new revelation. He can feel his brain kicking into overdrive, skidding from zero to sixty in no time flat. Finally—_finally_—the universe has stopped conspiring against him; the stars have aligned.

And it’s perfect, too, because they’re all so goddamn tired that he’s pretty sure no one is gonna want to find a new motel or sleep on the floor or any of that stupid shit. Nope—a little grousing, a little eye-rolling, and a half-hour or so, and Dean’s gonna find himself with a dark-haired, broad-chested, sleep-rumpled angel curled up at his back. They’ll end up a little too close for comfort; maybe Cas will fill the negative spaces behind Dean’s knees, the curve of his spine. Maybe their legs will tangle together, or Dean will sling an arm across Cas’s waist, or he’ll wake up to breath on his neck. Morning wood against his ass.

“—Dean. _Dean_.”

A hand comes down on his shoulder—he jolts back into awareness, mind losing its grip and slipping past the endless possible outcomes of _Dean + Cas + Bed_, and finds blue eyes looking back at him. “Huh— yeah, I’m here,” he says, mouth lagging a little behind his brain. Cas, god bless him, doesn’t seem to notice Dean’s fumbling, or the way he tugs his shirt down _just a little_. Just to be safe.

“We have a room.”

“We— Oh. Yeah, right.” He flashes Cas an exaggerated close-lipped smile and waves a hand for him to lead the way. Behind the desk, he can feel the woman looking at him, so he gives her a grin too. She shakes her head, but it’s good-natured and indulgent, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. He shoots her a thumbs-up and lets Cas usher him out into the night.

Their room isn’t far, but it is pretty much at the end of the motel. The door’s already pushed open when they get there, Sam inside. He’s dropped his bags at the foot of the bed and is frowning down at the two queens pushed up against the wall to the right. The bedspreads are a kinda unfortunate shade of red, all striped and jazzy, but Dean thinks they’re gorgeous all the same. And— Is that—

Yes. _Magic Fingers._

Dean drops his own bags just inside the door and hurries over to one of the bedside tables. “Dude. No friggin’ way! You know how long it’s been since I’ve seen one’a these?” He lifts his head to peer back up at Sam. “Tell me you have quarters.”

Looking around at the room, Dean decides that while it’s not the _best_ they’ve ever stayed in—the wallpaper is pretty tacky, and the carpet looks like it’s seen better days—it’s clean, and it has _magic fingers_, and Dean’s about to get _laid,_ so all in all, he’s calling it a win.

“Hey.” He looks up and finds Sam watching him, brows raised, hands held out in front of him—one curled into a fist, resting atop his other open palm. “Rock, paper, scissors? Loser shares the bed.”

_Fuck yes_.

He tries not to look too excited. “You’re on.”

From the middle of the room, Dean can nearly _hear_ Castiel’s frown. “Can I—”

“No.” They say it in unison. Dean looks over at Cas, who’s scowling now, and tries to think up an excuse. Not that it’s so hard, really, because him and Sam sharing a bed? Yeah, not good.

“Trust me, buddy—you let me’n Sammy share a bed, one of us’ll be dead by morning.”

“Most likely you,” Sam adds, mouth curled into a sideways smile.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Cas doesn’t seem overly pleased, but he doesn’t protest any further. Which means it’s time to concentrate, and Dean’s feeling pretty damn good.

Unbeknownst to Sam, Dean has been rigging this thing his _whole friggin’ life_: ‘rock, paper, scissors’ has always just been another way for him to manipulate chance into keeping Sam safe. _Who’s gonna go check out the freaky-looking crawl space? _Rock, paper, scissors. _Who’s gonna climb first down this ledge into the total darkness below? _Rock, paper, scissors. 

Dean’s been throwing scissors for like 30 years now, and Sam hasn’t _ever_ caught on.

So yeah. He’s pretty confident in his chances.

They smack their fists against their palms and then throw their weapons. Dean, as always, tosses scissors, and Sam, predictable bastard that he is, chooses rock. A smug little smile makes a home on his face, like he beat Dean fair and square, like this isn’t _exactly_ what Dean wanted in the first place.

And Dean has learned his lesson since the last time—he is _not_ gonna blow this by seeming too eager, so he punches the air and scowls like he’s pissed. “Son of a bitch!”

Sam claps him on the back and then struts over to the bed farthest from the door, sitting down and leaning against the headboard with an exaggerated groan. “Sorry, dude,” he says with absolutely no remorse. “Sucks to be you.”

Cas is eyeing him; he doesn’t move across the room yet, his bag still hanging from one hand as though he’s forgotten that it’s there.

“Aw, come on! I just drove like, 12 straight hours, and you’re gonna make me share a bed with Mr. Gas-Station-Burrito over here?”

Sam graces him with a bitchface. “Maybe you should’ve split up the driving, like we _suggested_, Dean.”

“Oh, yeah, like that woulda helped.” He’s getting into it now, channeling all the outrage he imagines he would’ve felt if it had come to this, say… four years ago. “Come on, dude, I just need like, _one_ solid night’s sleep.”

Cas is expressionless. Dean feels a little bad about saying all this shit, especially when the end goal is to seduce the guy, but he’s just gotta over this hurdle. No pleasure without a little pain.

“I’m sure you can both manage to keep your hands to yourselves,” Sam says, already turning away from Dean to dig through his duffle. 

“But—“

“Dean’s right,” Cas jumps in, his gaze flickering between them. “It would be inconsiderate to force him to share with me. I can sleep on the floor.”

Sam straightens with an exasperated noise. “No way, Cas; Dean can deal with it for once in his—”

“Whaddaya mean for once in my—”

“Oh, come on, Dean, like you ever take the high road!”

As always, their argument devolves quickly into petty insults and half-hearted shoves, and it isn’t long before Sam throws his hands up into the air and says, “Alright! Fine. I’ll share with Cas. Happy?”

And that’s… not at all helpful, actually. _Shit._ Dean’s expression freezes on his face, and he hopes he doesn’t _look _as panicked as he feels.

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says, with all the seriousness of a man let off death row. He brings his duffel over to Sam’s side, and Dean, still stuck to the spot and trying to figure out what went wrong and how the hell to fix it, watches him reach in for his toothbrush and pajamas and says nothing.

Cas disappears into the bathroom, and Dean still hasn’t moved an inch. Sam is glaring at him, hands fixed on his hips like a disapproving mother.

“Seriously?” he asks, his voice lowered as to not let Cas overhear.

Dean bristles. “Hey, it’s not like you were volunteering to share with the guy either,” he shoots back, suddenly pissed. _Fuck_ this. He shrugs his duffel off and lets it fall to the floor with a deep _thump_ that would be much more satisfying if it wasn’t muted by this ugly fucking carpet. He can hear Sam at his back, sucking in a breath to prepare for what’s no doubt winding up to be one hell of a sermon, but then the door to the bathroom creaks open and Cas emerges, effectively ending Sam’s bitch-fest before it really even has the chance to start. 

Dean kicks off his shoes and settles himself on top of the bed, hands folded behind his head, and tries _not_ to think of all the ways tonight could’ve gone.

\---

When he wakes, sunlight is already poking its face through the window. He inhales against the tightness in his shoulders and ache in his back (_shit_, he’s really getting old), and rubs at his eyes with his fingers, trying to massage wakefulness into them.

His discomfort is only magnified when he pushes himself up to sit. All things considered, it’s really not that bad, but the Winchester way has always been to bitch about anything minor and bleed to death in silence, so Dean groans low in his throat and rolls his head around, trying to get his neck to crack.

It _snap-crackle-pops _like a goddamn bowl of Rice Krispie Treats, but the relief is short-lived. Resigned to deal with it (he’ll swipe some of those quarters Sam flashed in a bit and see if trusty ol’ magic fingers can do anything about it), he looks up and spots Castiel seated at the table, a newspaper in his hands. Sam is nowhere to be found.

A hodgepodge of emotion bubbles in his stomach. With a decent night’s sleep behind him, he can see that he maybe went a little overboard with the whole Cas-Sam-bed show. In the grand scheme of things, it’s hardly the worst he’s treated Cas (which, okay, is kinda a low bar at this point), but the no-pain-no-gain attitude he’d approached the whole thing with now seems a bit… well, _dumb_, to put it bluntly. He’d engineered an entire Shakespeare-level plan to, what, get Cas in bed with him? Skip the wine-and-dine and head straight for dessert? For a thirty-year-old, it’s kinda pathetic.

And nope! It’s way too early for this.

“Where’s Sam?” he asks, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed.

Castiel answers without lifting his head. “On a run.” He gestures with a nod to a cardboard carrier on the other side of the table. “He left coffee.”

Dean settles himself in the chair opposite Cas, swiping the cup and swallowing down a grateful gulp. “Sammy, forget everything I ever said about you,” he says with overblown sincerity, as caffeine starts to sluggishly poke its way into his bloodstream.

Cas’s eyes flick up over the edge of the newspaper and hover there, watching Dean. His expression is unreadable, and after a moment, he looks down again. But Dean has known him long enough to be paranoid; he knows that look—part amusement, part confusion. Cas has something to add.

“What?” he asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion, and sets the cup back down on the table.

“I didn’t say anything,” Cas demurs, his gaze fixed on the page, but Dean can see the curl threatening to twist the side of his lip, the way his eyes look through the page instead of at it.

“No, come on, I know you wanna say something,” he says, his own mouth pulling upward slightly. Cas pretends like he hasn’t heard, eyes skimming over the page now, and Dean levers himself out of his chair, reaching out an arm to slap the newspaper down on the table.

Only this sends a twinge of discomfort shooting through his back, like his body fucked up and Vulcan-Nerve-Pinched itself in its confusion. He makes a face and pulls his arm back, rolling his shoulder dramatically. “Okay, _ow_,” he says, even though the pain is mostly gone by now. “Don’t ever get old, Cas; it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Something passes over Castiel’s face, and Dean remembers.

He winces inwardly—_good going, Winchester_—but before he can recover from his blunder, Cas’s face has smoothed back out again and re-formed into something like concern. “You’re in pain,” he states in that blunt way only he can manage; fondness burrows into Dean’s stomach and stretches out warm and light. He rolls his eyes, though, because _come on_.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” he fires back, putting his hands on his lower spine and bending backward slightly. It doesn’t do much to alleviate his (admittedly mild) pain, but he does feel various muscles and tendons screaming in protest. Flexibility was never one of his assets, but this is a whole new level of stiff. He feels old—decrepit—like Bobby, or Rufus. Dean makes a face and promptly cuts off that train of thought.

“I can help.”

Dean grunts as he rights himself, and casts a skeptical look over at Cas. It doesn’t go unnoticed; he watches Castiel’s gaze morph from concerned to something akin to annoyed, only more long-suffering, like Dean’s ignorance is something painful to endure. He squirms under it, but stubbornness and pride won’t let him back down. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” He sets his newspaper down on the table, resolve glinting behind his eyes. It sends a shiver down Dean’s spine (okay, so he’s got a _thing_ for Cas As A Badass—can you blame him?). “Lie down on the bed.”

Dean’s brain jams. He stares at Castiel, eyebrows trying desperately to muscle their way into his hairline, and tries to unclog the words tangled up on the back of his tongue. All he manages is a garbled “_Uh_—” before Cas is getting up and standing expectantly before him. Dean’s eyes catch on the stubble peppering his jaw, his mind unhelpfully replaying a whole host of pornos that are a spot-on match for this _exact_ scenario.

“I’m going to manually stimulate your soft tissue,” Cas says, and Dean, embarrassingly, feels his dick twitch in his pants.

“I’m... What?”

“Your soft tissue,” Castiel repeats, apparently unaware that Dean is about five seconds away from having his brain melt out his ears like nacho cheese. “Stimulation will relax the muscle tissue. It’ll reduce the spasms and reduce your pain.”

“...Okay, Dr. House,” Dean manages with a forced scoff, crossing his arms over his chest. He needs some kind of barrier between them, something to shield himself from the barrage of filthy images pouring like floodwater into his head. He spares a brief moment to thank whoever’s listening that Cas can no longer, in any way, shape or form, read another person’s mind.

It’s the little things.

“Normally,” Cas continues, “I would just do it with my Grace, but, uh…” He trails off.

“M-Manual stimulation is cool,” Dean says awkwardly. “I mean, it’s fine; manual— manual stimulation is, um, it’s fine.” _Smooth,_ he thinks furiously. _Real fucking smooth, Winchester_. His words are tripping over themselves, and even his thoughts are scrambled. Cas has always been aces at rendering him speechless; Dean remembers the early days, when just the sight of him, hair askew and tie hanging loose and backward around his neck, was enough to stop him in his tracks. At least this time, he’s got a pretty damn good reason.

They watch each other for a moment, the air between them crackling with tension. When it becomes unbearable, Dean forces his grimace back and claps his palms together. “Alrighty! Guess I’ll just, uh…” he shifts his weight for another awkward second before making his way to the bed. _Don’t be a sissy,_ he chides himself. _It’s just a massage. A totally _platonic _massage. Between two dudes._

Which, of course, doesn’t fucking help.

He flinches a bit at the first contact—Castiel’s legs brushing against his own, his weight settling right over Dean’s ass. He feels a flash of arousal, and wills himself to keep his cool. Cas hasn’t even started, for fuck’s sake.

“Am I hurting you?” Cas asks, and Dean feels his muscles tensing as he attempts to lever his weight off of him.

“No, you’re good,” he reassures quickly. Castiel says nothing, but his weight settles once more, and his hands begin their work.

His fingers knead Dean’s muscle, strong hands squeezing and rubbing as though Dean’s body is clay and he is the sculptor—Zeus crafting man out of nothing. He can’t help the soft hum that escapes his throat, as Castiel begins to wring the tension and stiffness and pain from within him. It bleeds out from under his touch like butter, and Dean feels himself sinking lower and lower into the bed, the side of his face smushing gracelessly against the worn comforter.

For a while, they coexist in silence. Sounds filter in from outside: muted laughter, muffled voices, the soft shush of cars on the freeway. Dean lets it wash over him, giving himself over to this moment of sudden peace. Normally, this position wouldn’t exactly be conducive to relaxation. A man’s hefty weight on top of him, keeping him held fast face down, with his arms at his sides? It’s too close to a vamp pinning him, to Alistair in Hell, to any number of no-win scenarios.

But this is Cas, so it isn’t that at all.

It’s like something in Dean knows that he’s safe—like some part of him, deep down, recognizes that this is the being that pulled him out, that remade him atom by atom, molecule by molecule. And maybe that’s a little cheesy, but it’s the truth. For everything he doesn’t know about Cas, he _knows_ Cas. On a subconscious level, or whatever.

“Since when d’you know how to do this?” Dean asks, mostly to get his train of thought going again. That’s one station he doesn’t want to linger in.

Castiel doesn’t cease his ministrations as he answers, which makes it a little hard for Dean to concentrate on his answer, but he does his best. “I’m very familiar with human anatomy.”

Dean’s brain stutters over that, but Cas doesn’t give him time to respond. 

“When I had my Grace, I used it to manipulate certain aspects of your biology,” he continues, as his fingertips dig into a particularly tender spot in the back of Dean’s neck. “I can’t do that anymore. If you asked me to, uh, mend a bone or cauterize a wound, I’d be useless. But I can do this.” He is silent for a moment, and Dean can nearly _hear _the frown. “It isn’t as effective, obviously.”

Dean chokes on the groan that rumbles up out of his chest. “Well, don’t go sellin’ yourself short,” he manages, speaking half into the pillow. “This is, uh, pretty friggin’ effective so far_._”

Castiel hums above him. That, coupled with the firm, relentless pressure of his fingers, sends a jolt of energy straight to Dean’s groin. To be honest, he’s surprised he’s managed to stave it off for this long. Massages are straight-up pornographic in and of themselves—he can play out about a thousand pornos that start off with some sexy, stubbled masseuse—and it doesn’t help that it’s Cas. Or that he’s been trying to hop in the sack with the dude for the better part of a couple months.

He shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. Castiel, perceptive asshole that he is, notices.

“Are you alright?”

Dean hopes Cas can’t see the face he’s making. “Yep! Fine!”

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can change positions.”

“Nope! I’m, uh, totally good here. As is.”

There’s a moment’s pause, but thankfully Cas doesn’t press any further. They lapse into a comfortable silence again, but this time Dean is unable to shake the specter of sex, looming over them like a promise. Each point of contact zings through his muscles and gathers in his dick, which is straining harder and harder against his boxers. And the more he thinks about it, the more he focuses on it. And the more he focuses on it, the more he _wants _it.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Cas asks. It feels like hours later, but arousal has always skewed Dean’s perception of time. Could be a minute, could be a day; all he knows is he’s hard to the point of leaking, and he’s got nearly two hundred pounds of ex-angel straddling his ass. Speaking of, he thinks he can feel Cas’s dick through both their pants, which definitely does _not _help.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice squeezed out of him like the last little burp of toothpaste from the tube. He’s trying hard to think of decidedly unsexy things, but even his go-to's—Bobby taking a bubble bath with a rubber duck, Sam getting him with a particularly bad dutch oven—aren’t up to this challenge. Dean wriggles again, and the shifting pressure against his crotch sends a jolt of pleasure up his spine. He exhales hard through his nose.

“Dean,” Cas is saying, sitting back on his haunches, and _oh_. He grits his teeth and presses his forehead further into the pillow. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m _fine_, Cas, okay? Just… just a little…” _Don’t fucking make me say it,_ he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut against the anger-cum-embarrassment pounding just behind his skull, because, again—hello?! He’s forty! This should not be happening anymore.

“Was I using too much force?” Cas asks, and Dean bites back a hysterical laugh. “I figured you would prefer, ah, firm pressure, which is generally more effective. But if I’m hurting you—”

“Damn it, Cas! Would you just— You’re not hurting me, okay? You’re, like, doing the opposite of hurting me.”

There’s a pause while Castiel considers.

“I don’t understand.”

Dean sighs. “Of course you don’t.” The way he sees it, he has two options: say, out loud, that Cas’s magic fingers have given him a massive boner, or wait and hope it goes away.

Yeah, he’s gonna go for the second option, thanks.

But nature, as always has different plans. Several moments tick by, each second stretching itself impossibly thin, and then Castiel inserts himself into the silence.

“Oh,” he says, and Dean can feel the realization shooting through his body. “You’re aroused.”

Dean groans. “Man, come on, you can’t just _say _shit like that—”

“Why not?”

“Because!” He can’t think of a good reason—whatever blood wasn’t in his dick is now gathering hot in his cheeks, turning them a vibrant red.

“Dean.”

_Jesus_. He’s had beatings less painful than this. “Look, I know you’re new to all this human shit, okay, so you get a pass, but this? It’s _awkward_. And I’d really, _really_ appreciate it if you’d stop friggin’ talking about it!”

There’s a pause as Castiel considers. “You’re attracted to me. My vessel, at least.” 

Sam should be done with prancing around the neighborhood by now, right?

“Among other things,” Dean grits out, because he can tell Cas has his thinking cap on, and he really doesn’t want the guy to think it’s just the meat he’s attracted to. He’s got it bad for the blue eyes, sure, but it’s not like he wanted to hop in bed with good old Jimmy. No, Dean’s attraction is 100% from-and-for the ageless being locked inside, god help him.

“I’m, um,” Cas starts, shifting awkwardly. He’s still sitting on Dean’s ass, which is getting pretty fucking weird, considering they’re getting dangerously close to heart-to-heart territory. Although maybe it’s for the best that they’re not face-to-face. Makes it easier, somehow. “Attracted to you as well. Among other things.”

Which, okay, hang on. Dean is speechless for a moment. The only thing rattling around in his mind is a triumphant _I was right!_ He rifles around frantically for a response. “You, uh…” His brain whirrs, but can’t churn up anything worthwhile from the depths of his dumbfoundedness.

Castiel slips sideways, off of Dean and onto the bed beside him. He pushes at Dean’s shoulder until Dean complies and lifts his torso slightly from the bed so that he can see Cas’s laughably intense expression.

“I, uh,” Cas begins, and Dean’s gaze flits helplessly from his eyes to his lips. “I think a kiss would be appropriate.”

Dean makes a strangled noise in his throat.

“Is that acceptable?” Castiel continues, the set of his face so intense Dean would laugh, were his heart not jackhammering behind his ribcage.

He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so instead, he props himself up on his forearms and closes the distance between them. It takes an age, though they’re no more than half a foot apart. Every part of his body sings for Castiel, like there’s a magnetic pull drawing him closer, making his hair stand on end. He knows that Cas has lost his holiness, that it’s been wiped away like fog from a windowpane, but Dean thinks there must be some power still hunkering down in the deep places inside him, because kissing him is like kissing a summer storm, all ozone and electricity. His lips are soft and dry and utterly human, but something crackles between them, some energy that pulses down Dean’s spine and hums through his extremities like lightning. _My soul knows yours_, he thinks.

Then Castiel places a hand on the back of his neck and nudges his lips apart, and he loses whatever higher thought he had left.

He’s awash in sensation, overwhelmed by the fact that this is _actually happening_, and it takes him a moment to move his mouth in return, to slip his tongue in alongside Castiel’s and taste the bitter tang of coffee still lingering there. Castiel’s breath is hot on his cheek, each exhale heavy and untempered. Dean levers his body closer and maneuvers them so Castiel is leaning over him and he can recline on the pillows.

Castiel draws back, and Dean opens his eyes at the loss. Cas is looking down at him with heartbreaking tenderness, haloed by the butter-yellow light from the front windows.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever looked more divine.

He grins and reaches up to run a hand through Cas’s hair. It’s soft between his fingers and catches slightly in the slight tangles that have not yet been brushed out. He lets his hand rest on the side of Cas’s head, thumb brushing reverently over the shell of his ear. Castiel is smiling now too, his lips quirked to the side and flushed pink.

Whatever discomfort had charged the air between them has receded now; funny what a good makeout can do to clear the air.

“I’d like to kiss you again,” Castiel says, his voice still rough with the vestiges of his earlier gravity. 

Dean chokes on a laugh. “Go ahead then, Casanova.”

He does. It’s just as sweet as the first, but Castiel pours something else into this one, some intensity with which Dean is all too familiar. Arousal surges through him again, and he brings his other hand up to explore the planes of Cas’s chest, his side. Cas grunts into the kiss and deepens it, leaning down a little farther. Dean squeezes his hip, trying to guide Cas’s body so that he lies fully atop him, and Cas’s cock drags against his thigh as he does.

Dean’s breath punches out of him. Both his hands fly to Cas’s ass, and he kneads circles into his flesh, pulling their bodies flush against each other. His own hips jerk up, cock throbbing already, and he feels Cas’s breath stutter in response.

“Is this okay?” Dean asks, his voice gone a little breathy (which he’ll totally deny, if it’s ever brought up again). Cas can’t seem to manage anything other than an emphatic nod. There’s a sharp furrow etching its way onto his brow, which Dean hopes is more concentration than consternation. Now that this is _happening_ happening, he can’t imagine stopping.

He would, obviously, but he’s hoping he won’t have to.

They work up a rhythm, rubbing against each other with a desperation that’s been building for five long years. Dean isn’t so lost in the pleasure that he can’t take a moment and think how fucking tragic it is that they’re still wearing all their clothes, but other than pawing a bit at Cas’s shirt, fumbling with the buttons one by one, he can’t make himself take the time to fix the problem.

As if he read Dean’s mind, Cas pulls back, finishing the bottom three buttons of his shirt and shucking it with only a little awkwardness. He leans back down and pushes at Dean’s flannel until Dean hauls himself up enough to wriggle out of it, which is a hell of a lot harder on his abs than he remembers, and then rucks his shirt up past his stomach. When Cas lowers himself again, the contact of skin to skin is electric.

Dean has always had a kinda religious relationship with sex. If he were a mushier, more spiritual guy (which he’s not, obviously!), he’d call it an act of worship. Sam may roll his eyes at all his one-night stands, but it’s never _just sex_. It’s two bodies, moving together. Two people knowing each other in the most intimate way. Sure, he may not know the chick’s last name, might not know whether that dude works in construction or finance or real estate, but he knows the sounds they make when they’re overwhelmed, knows the way they like to give and receive pleasure, knows how it feels to sleep beside them at night. That’s a totally _different _kind of knowing.

And now, he’s getting it with Cas.

Like it was with Lisa and Cassie and the couple girls he dated in high school, it’s different to fill in the gaps of his knowledge with sex rather than craft his image of someone solely from it. And with Cas, it’s… kinda orgasmic. For as much as his essence knows Castiel’s, Dean doesn’t _know _him, not really. So seeing him like this, wide-eyed and soft, desperate and unsteady, it’s like a revelation. Like thunder and lightning, wrapped up between two questionably-stained bedsheets.

Cas isn’t vocal; Dean didn’t expect him to be. He does make little noises, though, these tiny grunts that bubble up from his chest and snag between his teeth. Dean drinks them down like whiskey, swallowing as much of Cas as he can, in case he doesn’t get this chance again. _Fuck, _he hopes he gets this chance again. Hopefully every morning, and preferably every night too.

Cas grinds his hips harder against Dean’s, and _yeah, okay, message received. _That’s enough poetry for today, Neruda.

Dean’s close already, and from the way Cas’s hips are stutter-starting against him, he thinks he probably is too. But Dean’s come in his pants enough recently, and he sure as shit doesn’t want his first time with Castiel to end with creaming his boxers like some fourteen-year-old. His hands fumble with the button on Cas’s pants, popping it open and pulling the zipper down. He helps Cas shove them off along with his boxers and works at his own jeans, kicking them down somewhere near the foot of the bed.

When he brings their hips together, Cas whines. “Dean,” he pants, burying his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean nips at his ear, urging Cas’s hips faster against his own. He groans at the friction, pleasure building like a crescendo in him.

“That’s it, Cas,” he encourages. “Come on, I got you.”

Cas has lost all sense of rhythm. This is Dean’s favorite part; when his partner is _this_ close to the edge, every part of them just chasing that high. He hitches a leg around Cas’s waist, and the angle brings their cocks together in a way that has Dean throwing his head back against the pillows. “A-_Ah_, fuck!” One of his hands flies up to Cas’s hair and fists there, and Castiel groans open-mouthed against his neck in response. It sends a shiver careening down his spine, and his cock throbs.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he gasps, thrusting frantically up against Castiel. Cas says nothing, but his breath is erratic against Dean’s neck, his chest heaving. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, mouth falling open, and with one last jerk of his hips, comes hard. Cas’s hand grabs at Dean’s shoulder, fingers digging into his flesh, and his pleasure amplifies, shooting white-hot from that single point of contact. He cries out, thrusting up hard, fist spasming in Cas’s hair, and then Cas is coming too, grunting against the meat of Dean’s shoulder.

For a moment they just lay there, catching their breath. Dean wants to scoop this moment up and bury it at the bottom of his duffel, or keep it folded up and hidden in the breast pocket of his flannel. He tries to memorize the way the sunlight catches on the beads of sweat sprinkled over Cas’s skin like they’re tiny diamonds, the rise and fall of Cas’s chest above him, the thump of his heart. He could live a lifetime here, and it wouldn’t be enough.

Dean rubs at Cas’s scalp absentmindedly, and Cas hums against him. He shifts, and some of the moment’s majesty fades, because yep, okay—things are starting to get a little… _sticky_ between them. Dean presses a kiss to the top of Cas’s hair, willing to put up with the mess just a little longer in hopes of preserving this softness.

It lasts a couple moments, and then Cas pulls away and makes a face. “This is uncomfortable,” he declares, sporting his trademarked squint-and-pout. Dean rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the smile still tugging at his lips.

“Ever heard of an afterglow?” he fires back, but he fumbles around them for the shirt he’d discarded and uses it to mop up the mess on their bellies. When he’s finished, he chucks it on the floor and hopes Sam doesn’t show up before he has the chance to stuff it somewhere safe, like in the back of the cupboard under the sink. He’ll just leave a little tip for the maid, is all. Better that than see Sam’s disgusted face when he holds it up by two fingers, because prying little bitch that he is, he’ll almost definitely find it.

Cas is glaring at him, but there’s no heat behind it. Dean’s heart does a little two-step in his chest because, in this very moment, it hits him: he just had sex. With Castiel. All that planning, all that scheming, and turns out all it took was a little muscle pain. He’s not even pissed, though, because holy shit, he just had sex with Castiel! And Cas doesn’t seem the type to fuck and run, especially not with a friend. Not with him. So he’s feeling pretty good about his prospects.

Still, he can’t help the little twist in his stomach, because uh, hello? He’s a high school dropout who broke the first friggin’ seal and pretty regularly fucks up on a scale big enough to level a small city. And he thinks that an angel of god wants to shack up with him? Flowers, candlelit dinners, making out in the backseat of a car, the whole nine yards?

He’s getting a little post-coital anxiety. But again, he’s about as emotionally constipated as… something really emotionally constipated. So he keeps the grin pasted to his face and scratches at his chest. “So, uh, just sayin’, but next time we’re stuck with two beds, you, uh. You should share. With me.”

Cas looks at him like he’s grown another head.

“Dean,” he says, with painful slowness. “I think from now on, we should let Sam have his own room.” And just like that, his fears melt out of him. Cas swings his feet over the edge of the bed and starts to pad his way to the bathroom, turning to speak over his shoulder as he does. “But you get to be the one to tell him.”

Fucker.


End file.
